


Ian Might Be An Idiot

by madeofbees



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drugs, Episode Fix-it, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e08 Debbie Might Be a Prostitute, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Ian Fixes Things, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Stupid Boys being Stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofbees/pseuds/madeofbees
Summary: After Mickey punches Ian outside the courthouse, Ian realizes just how badly he messed up, and how much he needs to fix it. Shame he's trapped on the couch with a broken leg and can't go chase him down.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 22
Kudos: 264





	Ian Might Be An Idiot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuOliveira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuOliveira/gifts).



> The newest episode made my wife really depressed and I had to fix it and make her happy again.
> 
> I have seen slightly more Shameless since my last story, and said wife has read this one and told me it's in character and canon-compliant, but you never know.

The last time Ian saw Mickey, he was looking out the window of the Uber taking him to the hospital, half-dead from pain, heart ripped out of his chest, and Mickey, standing on the street, watching him drive away.

Mickey, who looked like he was about to cry.

Mickey, who had wanted to get married, and then punched him.

Mickey, who had broken his motherfucking leg.

Ian groaned in pain, rolling away from the window, because that kicked puppy face couldn’t be the last time he saw Mickey. Only it was.

Then he was waking up in a hospital bed, head swimming from pain killers and the chaotic whirlwind of the past few days, because even waking up in the hospital with a giant cast on his leg the first thing he thought of was Mickey.

“You’re alive, then?”

Ian blinked, turning to see Debbie sitting in the chair next to the bed. The room spun, and there might have been two Debbies, he wasn’t positive. No Mickeys, though.

“Yeah.”

Debbie stood, and Ian really needed to have a word with her about how she was dressed, but not now. “Great. I gotta go, Stella’s baby-sitting and she’s gonna steal all my weed if I leave her alone too long.”

Ian groaned. “That’s all I get?”

“Hey, you’re lucky I’m here at all, I got a very busy schedule,” Debbie said, smoothing her skirt. Then her mask fell aside, the Gallagher Don’t Give A Shit replaced with Family First, and she petted his leg—the good one, thank god. “You’re gonna be okay. I double checked.”

Ian rolled his eyes, which was a bad move, because the room had just stopped spinning and now he was back on a rollercoaster. “Thanks.” He glanced at her, and away before she could see the pain in his face. “Did, uh—”

“Yeah, Mickey was here,” she said, and gestured at the table next to the bed. “Left you that. Now I really gotta go. Lip said he’d be by later with Fred.”

“Thanks,” Ian said, eyes locked on the small, black, velvet box. Deb left, probably, he wasn’t paying attention, but the door closed so she was probably gone. He reached for the table, cursed when he couldn’t reach it. There was a letter under the box, and Ian was going to vibrate right out of his cast if he didn’t get his hands on whatever-the-fuck that was.

Groaning, he swung both legs off the side of the bed, and man, they had him on the good stuff, because all he felt was a vague aching. He held onto the sheets with one hand, grabbed at the table with the other until his fingers caught and the table wheeled into his legs, and he didn’t even notice. He shoved the box aside and grabbed at the envelope, unmarked, and ripped it open.

_Don’t bother talking to me until you’re fucking ready._

Fuck. Fuck, it was—whatever was in the box, it was what he thought it was, and he couldn’t open it, only he couldn’t get Mickey’s face out of his head.

When the Uber pulled away.

When he’d said they should get married so they wouldn’t have to testify.

Just before he’d punched him.

The box was in Ian’s hands before he knew what he was doing, and inside was a solid gold band, and fuck, _fuck_ , what was he supposed to do with this, what—

“Hey!” Ian jerked up, somehow expecting to see Mickey, but it was a nurse, walking into his room, looking exasperated and pissed and like he wasn’t paid nearly enough. “What’re you doing out of bed? Lie down, now, before you rebreak that leg.”

“I’m still in bed,” Ian muttered, sliding the ring under the pillow as he heaved himself back into the hospital bed.

The nurse pointed at him. “Stay. Don’t move. The doctor will be in sometime this year to talk to you, but it’s real busy and you aren’t dying, so it might be a while.”

Ian lay back, staring at the ceiling, the box digging into the back of his head through the thin-ass excuse for a pillow.

 _Fuck_.

—

It took two days for Ian to be released, apparently because his fake insurance was good enough that the hospital wanted to milk every fake dollar out of him that they could. Lip picked him up in some old beater he didn’t recognize, and Ian stayed quiet, aware of the box in his pocket and not much else.

“So,” Lip said, breaking the silence. “Mickey ever show up?”

“Shut up,” Ian muttered, facing away from him, looking out the window.

“Debbie said something about a box—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Ian snapped.

“He might be a fucked up psychopathic wreck, but he’s _your_ fucked up psychopathic wreck, and if—”

“I will steal your baby if you don’t shut your face,” Ian said, turning to glare at his brother. “I know how to do it, I’ve done it before, and for fuck’s sake if you don’t stop talking, you’re never going to see Fred again.”

“You’re an ass,” Lip stated, but he didn’t sound that upset.

“Yeah, that’s me, biggest fucking ass in Chicago.” Ian went back to looking out the window, stomach twisting uncomfortably, because it was true, he was. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Suit yourself.”

Lip dropped him off in front of their house, and Ian spent a good ten minutes trying to get up the front steps and onto the couch. Thank god Frank wasn’t home, and Debbie had the kids off somewhere, and Carl was tagging along with Liam to some basketball game, and he had the house to himself. He was beyond not ready to talk about what happened with Mickey, and he had a feeling someone would try to get him to open up, in case his stupid bipolar flared up again, and he wasn’t in the fucking mood.

He turned the TV on, ignoring it completely, and pulled out the box. The velvet—fake velvet, probably, but he didn’t know—was already starting to wear off from constant handling, from how Ian couldn’t put it down, kept turning it over and over, occasionally opening it but always immediately snapping it shut again. The box was too much to process; the contents were so much worse.

Ian wasn’t positive why it was worse, since three days ago he’d at City Hall ready to go.

If he was being completely honest with himself, which he didn’t want to be but was aware that he needed to, he wasn’t actually positive why he hadn’t signed the paper. Mickey had looked so happy, in his fucked up, refusing to smile sort of way, and he had panicked, because what if…

What if getting married changed that. What if Mickey figured out he couldn’t make him happy, that he was a Gallagher and Gallaghers didn’t fucking _do_ relationships, and whatever they had would blow up beyond repair if he agreed to marry him.

Which definitely hadn’t happened anyway.

For what must’ve been the thousandth time, Ian checked his phone. No missed calls, no texts, no sign of Mickey. It seemed he’d been serious about no contact, and that wasn’t fair, when Ian was on crutches and couldn’t chase him down even if he wanted to.

He did, of course. He fucking hated it, it terrified the shit out of him, but he always wanted to, _needed_ to go back to Mickey, because he wasn’t complete without him, and that was some fucked up bullshit right there, but it was also the truth.

Ian dialed Mickey’s number, waited not-so-patiently for it to go to voicemail.

“Hey. It’s me. I, uh. We need to talk.” He didn’t hang up, waiting to find the right words, coming up short, like always. “I can’t come to you, I have a cast, crutches, I’m on the couch, and this is too important for the phone, and—”

“If you are satisfied with your voicemail, press one. If you would like to listen to your voicemail, press—”

“Fuck.” He must’ve spent too long trying to be eloquent, and had gotten cut off for his efforts. He called back, still going to voicemail, heart slamming because was Mickey busy, was he ignoring him, was he off fucking someone else, was—

“Hey, um, sorry about that. Can you come over? It’s just me, at least for now, and we need to talk. In person.” He paused, thinking, overthinking, and forced out, “Love you. Bye.”

He hung up, took a deep breath, and let it out as he fell back against the couch. He had no idea if Mickey would come, if he needed some sort of big, grand gesture that involved not being trapped on the couch, if Ian had fucked it up enough that it didn’t matter and they were over, for real this time.

He couldn’t get the thought of Mickey fucking someone else out of his head. It wouldn’t be the first time, when they weren’t together and had seen other people. Dated, fucked, whatever, they’d done it all, and even knowing Mickey had at some point had someone else’s dick buried in him was enough to make Ian ready to actually throw someone out a window, never mind that he might be doing that now, right now, bent over and moaning for some stranger, and Ian was seriously considering cutting his cast off with whatever was closest when his phone beeped.

[From: Mickey] Don’t get up. I’ll be there in a few hours.

Ian let out a sigh of relief, actually held his phone against his chest for a moment as if he could feel Mickey’s heart beating against his, and sent back a quick _okay._ Now that he didn’t feel like he was about to die, his leg was starting to ache, burn along the suture line, and he hadn’t been able to fill the prescriptions the hospital had given him since he didn’t have a fake ID matching his fake insurance, so he started digging around in the couch, between the cushions, and yup, wouldn’t you know it, a baggie full of joints. There was a lighter on the coffee table, and Ian didn’t realize until he was halfway done with the first that there was something other than pot in there, and by then he was half asleep, and it was easier to drift off than to argue with the couch about the relative merits of raccoons as pets.

—

“Hey. _Hey_. Wake up, asshole.”

Ian groaned, blinking hard and opening his eyes. Mickey was standing next to him, and he was shimmering, ethereal, like an angel. He was beautiful.

“I am, huh?”

Ian frowned. Had Mickey read his mind, or had he said that out loud? “Are you real?”

Mickey sighed. “Oh, boy.” The couch shook, and it took a minute for Ian to realize Mickey had kicked it and not that it was trying to eat him. “Couldn’t wait two fucking hours for me, had to go and get fucked up, and how’re we supposed to talk now, jackass?”

“Joints,” Ian said, and his mouth felt funny, but he thought the words were the ones he meant. “No painkillers, the couch gave me joints, thought they were weed.”

Something clattered, and then Mickey was sitting on the coffee table, trying to make eye contact. Ian fell into his eyes, oceans and oceans, swimming amongst the stars, and it was beautiful, _Mickey_ was beautiful, and god he loved him.

“Your pupils are the size of fucking quarters,” Mickey said, and his hand was on Ian’s face, holding him still, and Ian leaned into it. Nothing was as good as touching Mickey, or Mickey touching him, and he didn’t know where he ended and Mickey began, and they were one, and it was beautiful, everything was so beautiful. “Yeah, you dosed yourself real good. You’re gonna be tripping for a while, we should get you upstairs and in bed where you’ll be safe.”

“I’m safe here, with you,” Ian said, holding onto Mickey’s arm. “What you and I have makes me safe.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and stood, taking all of him back to himself, and they weren’t touching, and it wasn’t okay. But, Ian realized, they _were_ still touching, ribbons floating between them, tying them together. So beautiful.

“C’mon, get up.”

Ian wasn’t sure if he was moving by himself or if Mickey picked him up, but then he was leaning against Mickey and they were one again, not swimming through stars but awkwardly hobbling, and stairs had never been more difficult but then he was in bed, down, soft, and the ceiling was rippling waves, and they changed colors whenever he blinked.

“Okay, you stay there and ride this out. I’ll be back tomorrow when you’re, y’know. Not surfing on the fucking ceiling.”

Ian was still confused as to how Mickey kept knowing what he was thinking, but the thought of him leaving was horrible, the worst thing in the entire universe, and completely unacceptable. “No, wait.” He leaned up, reaching for him, and there might have been miles between them, and he was starting to hyperventilate, not being able to touch him. “Stay, stay, stay, please, I need you.”

Mickey made some sort of noise Ian didn’t understand, then pushed him over and lay down next to him. “Fine, but you’re not getting in my fucking pants. This doesn’t mean we’re together, or okay, or whatever. I’m keeping an eye on you, that’s it.”

“Mhm,” Ian said, curling against Mickey, using his chest as a pillow.

“What the fuck, Gallagher.”

“Your heartbeat is like a whale song,” Ian told him.

The song deepened into a low baritone as Mickey groaned. “Shut the fuck up, would you?”

“Okay,” Ian said, and then he was asleep again, because Mickey was warm and soft and beautiful and made of galaxies, and more than anything safe, and Ian loved him.

—

It was dark when Ian woke up, and he had a pounding headache, but Mickey’s arm was slung around his shoulder, and for a second Ian forgot about the failed marriage, the punch and the broken leg, the accidental trip, and he was filled with a deep-seated calm, something he’d never had before.

Then his leg throbbed, and everything came crashing back.

“Fuck,” Ian muttered, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. The room had returned to normal, the ceiling off-white and staying still, and aside from the headache—probably dehydration—he was okay, mostly.

Well, aside from the headache and the colossal fuckup with Mickey, who was stirring and starting to wake up.

“Hey,” Ian said quietly, not able to look at him, not after everything.

“Hey yourself.” He felt Mickey stretching next to him, still didn’t have the courage to look. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine. I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I was trying to take the edge off, and—”

“Yeah, the couch gave you acid, you said.” Mickey knocked his hand against Ian’s good leg, harder than he needed to but not as hard as Ian figured he deserved. “It wore off, I take it?”

Ian nodded, licking his dry lips, heart slamming, because they needed to talk, now, and he needed to do it right, or he’d never see Mickey again, and that was un-fucking-acceptable. “I’m sorry.”

“Forget about it, doesn’t matter.” Mickey sat up, and Ian was still looking away, at anything and everything other than him. “I’m gonna—head out, now, and—”

Ian whirled to face him, grabbing his hand. “No. Stay.”

Mickey glared at him, jerking his hand free. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snapped. “I let it go before, cause you said I was full of fucking whales or some shit, and I didn’t want you to do something stupid and die, but that doesn’t change shit. Unless you grow up and act like a fucking man, I’m out. Of this room, and out of your sorry-ass life.”

Ian grabbed his hand again, not letting go this time, and he was on the edge of hyperventilating, and his head and leg were made of pain, and Mickey needed words from him, and there was no way, no fucking chance, that he could find the right ones now.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, took out the box, and put it in Mickey’s hand.

Mickey stared at it, stared at _him_ , and Ian was bright red, still tongue-tied.

“What the fuck is this supposed to mean? Are you giving this back to me because you don’t—don’t fucking want it, or.”

Ian didn’t miss Mickey’s voice cracking, or how he couldn’t bring himself to say it, and maybe he wasn’t the only one who had difficulties with words.

“Or,” Ian said, his voice coming out a whisper. He cleared his throat, looked up at Mickey, and the fragile hope he saw was enough to break him, break through any remaining barriers. “Or I’m asking you to marry me.”

There was a beat of silence, then Mickey asked, “Are you?”

Ian bit his lip, but nodded. “Yeah.”

Mickey huffed, looked away then back at him, still sitting on the edge of the bed and poised to leave, fingers wrapped in Ian’s, the box nearly forgotten in his other hand. “That—that was a piss-poor proposal, Gallagher. Worse than the fucking patty melts, where at least you said it, not this—this half-said bullshit.”

“I can’t get down on one knee,” Ian said, and he was starting to realize that it was okay, things were going to be okay, _they_ were going to be okay. Okay and married, and what the fuck was that. Terrifying, beyond any dimension of reality, but also the best thing that ever happened to him. “Since you broke my fucking leg.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you don’t have any fucking balance,” Mickey said sharply, but he was smiling a little, too, and that was good. “All I did was punch you, you’re the one who took a fucking swan dive.”

“No, you—” Ian stopped himself. It didn’t matter, wasn’t important. “You said to wait until I’m ready, does that mean until my cast comes off? Cause that’s gonna be six to eight weeks, and I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

“No, it doesn’t mean that, idiot.” Mickey scooted a little further onto the bed, a little farther from running away. “I don’t give a shit about your leg, or if you’re down on one knee, I care about—” He cleared his throat. “About you, asshole. If you’re ready, or if you’re gonna run the next time I try to sign my life over to you.”

“Not gonna run,” Ian said, overwhelmed and acutely aware of how lucky he was, that Mickey fucking Milkovich was going to marry him. “I’m done running. I just want you.”

Mickey’s smile grew, spread to his eyes, sparkling almost like oceans. “So fucking say it.”

“Marry me,” Ian said, barely breathing.

“Yeah, okay, then. I will.”

Ian pulled Mickey in for a kiss, crashing their mouths together, starting off needy and desperate, slowly moving to something more gentle, soft presses of their lips, the flick of a tongue. Ian didn’t know how long it lasted until Mickey pulled back, leaning their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Mickey said, words a whisper on a breath.

“I love you,” Ian said, not desperate or pleading, just the truth, just them.

Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Mickey RP blog over on tumblr if anyone wants to play! Come find me at [mickeyisanass](%E2%80%9Cmickeyisanass.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) :D


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